


i will possess your heart

by tosca1390



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 14:43:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rukia sits at her desk at night with her books and her notes, watching a house that never comes alive, and she wonders if there isn’t something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i will possess your heart

**Author's Note:**

> An AU based loosely off the manga [Black Bird](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Bird_\(manga\)). Written last year.

*

The house next door has been empty for ten years. 

Her desk faces the window, looking out over the trees and the wall. She placed it so for a reason all those years ago, so she could see the flowerings and the dying of each tree, watch for a light in any window. There was a boy there once, a few years older than her; she remembers his name, the shocking orange of his hair, his serious smile. 

She remembers little else, except for misty shadows and a goodbye. 

_I will come back for you, Rukia. I promise._ , he had said to her as she, six years old and lonely and haunted, watched him leave. It was the last time she really cried, she thinks. 

It is not waiting. She is defiant with herself on that. She has gone out on dates, she has excelled in her studies (except math), has learned the katana and the art of the blade as a defense against the demons that dog her every step. Her older sister and brother-in-law look at her as accomplished, as well-rounded, and she feels it. 

But Rukia sits at her desk at night with her books and her notes, watching a house that never comes alive, and she wonders if there isn’t something more. 

*

“Kuchiki-san, we’re going to the movies after school. Would you like to come?”

Rukia looks up from the books clutched in her arms, smiling slightly at Orihime as they walk through the front doors of the school. “Oh, no, I couldn’t. But thank you, Inoue-san,” she says quietly. 

Orihime smiles, tucking her long bright hair behind her ears. “Well, of course. We would love to have you join us sometime,” she says, touching Rukia’s elbow lightly before she runs ahead to join a few of the other girls from their class. They laugh and linger for a moment under the bare trees before turning the corner towards the direction of downtown. 

Rukia watches them, a strange sort of loneliness sweeping over her. There are moments she would like to join the friendly girls in her class, and become some sort of normal girl. 

The demons at her ankles and hands tug at her, nip at her. They are the ones that keep her back from any real normalcy. She has seen them since before she can remember, and they have always haunted her; but now, since her birthday, since she turned sixteen, they have begun to attack, to sharpen their nails into her flesh. 

It’s why she practices with the sword so much, despite the sighs of her sister; it keeps them at bay. It’s all she can do, and she will do it well. 

The early spring day is grey, too cold as she walks home. She can hear the demons in her ears, catching at the bare skin of her hands. They pick at her tights, searching for soft skin. She tucks her books closer into her stomach and ducks her head, turning a corner with a push of speed. 

A claw tugs at her ankle, tripping her forward. She stumbles into a broad warm body, and gasps a little. Warm hands latch at her shoulders. A surge of familiarity swallows her at the touch.

“You all right?” a warm male voice curls in her ear. 

The demons fall silent, drop away. Rukia looks up, her hair sliding out of the knot at the nape of her neck. 

“Yes,” she says at last, the breath caught in her chest. 

He watches her carefully, his eyes narrowing. A shock of bright orange hair falls across his brow. The all black of his clothes is striking against his skin, his hair. “They’re all over you, eh?” he asks, letting her go. 

Her fingers curl hard into the sharp corners of her books as he brushes the air around her. His hands are broad and focused, cutting the air. She can hear the small groans and howls, the skittering away of the demons. 

“You can see them?” she asks, suspicion rising through her. 

His gaze fixes on her again. “You don’t remember me, Rukia?” he asks. His voice is thick with genuine surprise. 

A flush curls at her throat, rising to her cheeks. “I – how do you know my name?” 

His gaze hardens, the line of his jaw tightening. “You should be more careful out here. They’re after you in earnest now,” he says shortly, stepping back and around her. 

She turns and watches him walk away, mouth open in surprise. The air around her is clear and quiet. Her shoulders straighten and rise. 

“Hey! Wait a second!” she shouts after him. 

He doesn’t turn, and soon disappears around the next corner. A cool breeze curls at her ankles. Her nails bite into the book covers, hard. There is a taste of bitterness at the back of her throat, like a mistake. 

At home, when she goes up to her room at last and sets her books on her desk, she looks out the window out of habit. Her heart jumps into her throat. 

The house next door is full of light, tall shadows in the window. The flush from earlier returns to her throat. She thinks of the tall man from this afternoon, the careless curl of his mouth. 

“Ichigo,” she murmurs, unbidden. 

*

When she walks by after school the next day, the gate is wide open. 

Rukia hesitates just at the open gate, her satchel heavy on her shoulder. The trees are bare, waiting for spring buds and flowers. She can hear rustling in the courtyard, above the high walls that surround the land. 

There is a part of her that wants to go straight home, to ignore it. She feels the ache of the day on her shoulders, the press of demons on her shoulders and in the thick air. Two hours of practice with the sword lay ahead of her, and sleep did not come easy to her the night before. There are strange moments and images that linger in her mind even now, of the tall man from yesterday, the ease with which he cleared the air for her. 

The air around the house is open, empty. The demons have fallen away. She curls her fingers at the strap of her satchel and steps around the corner of the open gate. 

In the courtyard, staring into the bare branches of the trees, stands the man from yesterday. Black robes tuck at his waist, his hands lost in the wide sleeves. She stops at the edge of the brick path, watching him silently. There’s a harsh press of her heartbeat against her ribs, the thin skin at her wrists. 

_Ichigo_ , she thinks, fingertips tingling. 

He looks over then, eyes narrowing. His mouth curls and relaxes. 

“Rukia,” he says. The sound of her name on his lips shivers through her, right to the bone. 

“I’m sorry to intrude,” she says, taking a step back towards the open gate. 

In the grey afternoon light his hair is dulled, falling across his brow. “You’re not. You’ve always been welcome here. Remember?” he asks, approaching her. 

There’s a taste of something at the back of her throat, an almost-memory. Her fingers curl, itching for her sword. “I played here, when I was young,” she says softly. 

“With me,” he says, his hand catching hers. His touch is very warm, his fingers curling over hers. 

She tilts her head back, narrowing her eyes. “Ichigo?”

The grin that curls his mouth is genuine, a little heart-rending. “You remember.”

“A little,” she says haltingly. A cool breeze ruffles the ends of her hair. “A very little.”

“I see,” he says, voice darkening. His grasp on her hand tightens for just a moment. 

The moment stretches out between them. She swallows and keeps his gaze, taking a deep breath. Again, the blank parts of her memories haunt her, taunting her with just the hints of a goodbye, of his young earnest face, his hand at her cheek. 

“Welcome back,” she says at last. A flush settles at her throat, too warm. She pulls her hand from his gently. “I should – I should go.”

Ichigo bows his head, still watching her. “Please, come over any time. I hope we can be friends again, eh?” he offers, a small smirk playing at his mouth. 

She slides her fingers through her hair, smiling slightly. “Yes. Thank you,” she murmurs before turning and walking out of the courtyard. She can feel his eyes on her back long after she steps into her own house. 

“Oh, Rukia! Did you see who has returned?” Hisana asks at dinner, as Rukia picks at her rice and scallops. It is just the two of them again, as Byakuya is away on business for the month. “That boy you played with when you were young, he’s come back to the house next door!”

“I know, nee-sama,” Rukia says, rubbing at a new callus on her thumb. She had been extra-vigorous in her practice this afternoon, with the memory of Ichigo’s face stuck at the forefront of her mind. 

“You were so fond of him – Ichigo, isn’t that his name?” Hisana says with a smile. 

Rukia sighs and pushes her rice around her plate, chopsticks heavy in her fingers today. “Was I?” she murmurs, and tries to remember. 

*

Things are strange, after that. 

She comes into homeroom one morning and finds Ichigo sitting in the chair directly behind hers, school uniform neatly pressed. There’s something that doesn’t fit, as the teacher introduces Ichigo and remarks little on his life before moving here; she remembers him as being older, too old for high school. But he is here, and in all of her classes, he sits right behind her. His stare hardly ever wavers; it’s unnerving, to say the least. 

A week or so since his arrival, she exits the front doors of the school to find him waiting, leaning against the brick wall with books loose and lazy at his side. 

“Yo,” he says with a sharp little grin. 

“Hi,” she says, tightening her grip on her satchel. 

He pushes off the wall and walks towards him. In the pale sunlight, his eyes seem nearly gold. “I thought I could walk you home. Since we’re neighbors, and all.”

She flushes; there are classmates in the courtyard, boys who are staring and girls who are talking. The attention is confusing. “Yes. If you want. Okay,” she murmurs, tucking her hair behind her ears. She’s left it down today; it curls across her shoulders, the ends dark against the brown sweater of her uniform. 

“Great,” he says, and takes her satchel from her as they begin to walk. 

“I thought you were older,” she says after a long comfortable silence. Their heels click on the sidewalk. There are no demons at her back today. She wonders, as she glances at him, if it’s because of him. 

“Eh?”

“I thought you were older than I was,” she repeats, watching the line of his jaw. 

He glances at her, mouth twisting slightly. “Oh. Yeah, well, I am. I’m behind in school.”

It doesn’t make sense, she thinks. She shakes her head as they turn the corner. His elbow grazes hers.

“But you studied so much,” she murmurs, the words coming unbidden to her tongue. 

He stops then, taking her wrist in his hand. He has his books and her satchel in the same arm with ease. “What did you say?” he asks, eyes dark on hers. 

She bites at her lip, a flush warm on her throat. “You – you studied so much, didn’t you?” she says. “When we were young. It doesn’t make sense, for you to be behind.”

His mouth relaxes, gaze softening. “I thought you said you didn’t remember.”

“I don’t,” she murmurs, sliding her wrist from his hands. “I don’t, really. I don’t know where that came from.”

Sighing, he begins to walk again. She watches for a moment before moving to catch up. 

“Maybe it’ll come back to you, in time,” he says, very quiet. 

He leaves her at her front door with a standing invitation to tea, and a wave. She watches him walk next door and through the gate, an unsettled feeling rising in her middle. 

She is missing something. 

*

The pattern repeats; Ichigo walks her home from school, and they spend half of it in silence, half of it in conversation. He seems intrigued by her abilities with the katana, and asks to watch her practice, which sends her into a strange sort of fluster. Always, he asks in her for tea; always, she gives him an excuse as to why she can’t. 

Hisana seems amused, and finally tells her to stop dragging him along and go over for tea. Rukia flushes and doesn’t come out of her room for the rest of the night. 

The girls in their class murmur and stare at her now, for more than just her usual reticence. She thinks they may be jealous, but that is completely unfathomable to her that she just shakes her head and sighs. 

It’s Orihime, kind and gentle Orihime, who finally comes up to her between classes near the end of the day, a week since the walking home ritual was established. 

“He’s very handsome, Kuchiki-san. You’re very lucky,” she says with a kind smile. 

Rukia can’t help the strangled noise ripped from her throat. “What?”

“Kurosaki-san is your boyfriend, isn’t he? He seems nice. A little reserved, and strange, but nice,” Orihime says with a laugh.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Rukia says, shock dripping from every word. “I don’t have one!”

Orihime sighs and pats Rukia’s arm. “He wants to be, then. Isn’t that why he walks you home every day?”

The bell rings, and Orihime leaves her at the lockers with a wave and a smile. Rukia stares at the floor, frustration curling her fingers and a flush rising on her face. 

“You need to stop,” she mutters when she comes out of the doors to find him waiting again for the seventh school day in a row, a scarf tied loosely around his throat. It’s a cold day, too cold for the coming spring. 

Ichigo just smiles and takes her satchel. “Stop what?”

“People are getting the wrong idea,” she says sharply. “They think you’re courting me.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Well, I kind of am.”

“What?” she exclaims, watching stunned as he walks towards the sidewalk. 

Glancing back, he raises his eyebrows. “You’re not an idiot, Rukia.”

Startled, she moves forward to catch up. “I just – I didn’t know,” she murmurs softly. 

His fingers curl around her wrist. He pulls her close to him as he leans against a still-bare tree. Her hands fall to his chest instinctively, curling in his sweater. 

“Well, now you do. What do you think?” he asks, voice low. His face is very close to hers; she can feel the brush of his scarf against her throat. 

Her teeth slide and press over her bottom lip, nerves curling her fingertips. “I – Well –“

There’s a shift in the air, an abrupt thickening. The hair on the nape of her neck rises. Ichigo’s face changes, sharpens; he pushes her down to the ground as something whistles near her head. 

“What – what the hell –“ she exclaims, pushing at him as he sprawls across her. 

“Gin,” Ichigo says, voice sharp. “Making your move?”

Rukia tilts her head up, looking past Ichigo’s shoulder to see a tall silver-haired man towering over them, hand outstretched towards them. He is too sharp, too dangerous to be merely a human. She swallows hard, fingers reaching for the knife at her thigh. 

“I was planning to, yes. You are very quick now, aren’t you Kurosaki?” the man – Gin – murmurs casually. “Still, not quick enough.”

Her skin splits at her stomach at his words, the flick of his wrist. She gasps as blood stains her blouse, seeps from her skin and soaks into her sweater. The pain is dull; she presses her hands to her stomach and swallows, looking up at Ichigo.

He takes only a moment to keep her gaze before he is up, his shirt stained with her blood. The sidewalk is quiet, deserted. 

“You’re going to regret that,” is all Ichigo says before there’s a sharp burst of energy, and Gin is down, coughing blood as the skin splits across his chest. 

Rukia struggles to her feet and leans against the tree, breathing heavily as she watches. Ichigo strikes again, cruel sharp lines in the air. She can feel the atmosphere thicken, the keening of the demons tugging at her hair, licking at her wound. 

“No,” she whispers, the knife between her fingertips. She swipes at the tiny demons, keeping a palm pressed to her open wound. 

When she looks next, Ichigo is alone. 

“Where did that guy go?” she asks, knees trembling. 

He shakes his head, walking over to her. The demons scatter and she drops her knife, both hands pressed to her stomach. “I have to go to the clinic,” she murmurs, dizzy. The air is too cool, her fingers like ice. 

Ichigo kneels in front of her, looking up. “It’s okay,” he says quietly, eyes dark. “It’s not very deep. Let me –“

He peels her hands from the wound, leaning in. She inhales sharply. “What –“

Then, his mouth opens over her skin, his tongue soft on the wound. It stings but it heals, the skin knitting together. She grabs at his shoulders and shuts her eyes. He is persistent but gentle, swiping up the blood and curling his mouth along her skin. 

Tilting his head back, he meets her eyes. There’s a fleck of blood on his lip. “See? It’s okay.”

“What the _hell_ was that?” she breathes, nails digging into his shoulders. 

He rises, taking her hands in his. “Come over for tea, and I’ll tell you. Yeah?”

*

The tea is cold in front of her. 

“A demon. A Tengu,” Rukia says flatly. Ichigo’s words wrap around her mind over and over. 

Ichigo looks relaxed and easy in the sitting room of his room, the sleeves of his black robes wide against the table. “You knew this before, you know,” he says with a shrug. 

She passes a hand over her face, shifting uncomfortably. He gave her a coarse set of robes to change into, her uniform a mess of blood and dirt. “But I don’t remember,” she says quietly, her fingers curled into her lap.

Silence settles between them. She can hear the slight and hurried footsteps of Kon, the little boy Ichigo had introduced to her as one of his retainers, as he runs around the house readying for dinner. Rukia shuts her eyes for a moment, letting it all breathe and stretch over her. 

There is a reason for the demons, for the attacks – she is special, he says. She is a child born of special blood that is temptation for demons. They will eat her if they can – but there are those that would force her into marriage with the head of their clan. It all feels strange, and yet it makes sense, really. The lack of her parents, the mysterious circumstances of Ichigo’s appearance and disappearance – she understands it, she thinks.

Ichigo is the head of his clan. There are some things they have yet to touch. 

“So,” she says at last. “I’m assuming you’re not trying to eat me.”

When she looks at him, the shock is in every line of his face. “Are you an idiot? No, of course not!”

She rolls her eyes, smoothing her hands over the folds of her robes as they lay on her thigh. “Then what? You want to marry me?” she drawls, a flush forming on her collarbones. 

His eyes darken, the gold glinting there. “Yes,” he says simply. 

“Oh god,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “Is this what this has been all about? You’ve been trying to get close to me to spring this on me?”

“Rukia, I came back for you,” he says, voice serious and soft. “I promised I would.”

Nerves tangle her tongue, her fingers sharp as they dig into her thigh. “We – we were so _young_ ,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t even really remember – I don’t know you now!”

He’s at her side, so quickly she can’t even blink. His hands cover hers, warm and strong. “I’ve been trying – I want you to know me,” he says firmly. 

“So, do I not have a choice in this?” she snaps, voice rising. There is something in her that’s comforted by it, somehow; she’s not surprised he’s here, that this is how it’s settled between them. But she silences that small voice because it’s just too _much_. 

Ichigo watches her, eyes dark. “You – well, yes, you do,” he says, mouth twisting. “I’m not gonna force you to marry me. But I’m not leaving you again.”

She sighs, cheeks warm and eyelids heavy. There’s still a stretch at her stomach, the skin tender. She thinks of his mouth on her skin and bites at her lip. 

“I need – I need to think about all this,” she says, shaking her head. 

“I understand,” he says, a hand rising to touch her hair, brushing it back from her eyes. “Just – the others will be coming tomorrow. Will you come over and meet them?”

“The others?” she asks, suddenly very tired. 

“The other retainers. My men,” he says, his fingers light on her temple. 

She meets his gaze, and something settles in her, her heart pressed hard to her throat. There’s a comfort in his hand on hers. She remembers his hand on her cheek, small and young, with tears edging her eyes. 

_I will come back for you, Rukia_. 

“Okay,” she says softly.

He smiles, and there’s something charmingly boyish in him, something young despite the responsibilities of his title, of the clan he now is head of. “Good.”

Later, at home and in her bed, she curls herself around her pillow and shuts her eyes. She dreams of hazy memories, of rain, of a mud cake, of a taller brother with glasses. 

She wears Ichigo’s robes all night long.

*

Meeting the retainers is interesting. 

There are five of them all together: Kon, the little one she’s already acquainted with and who likes to attach himself to her ankles every time she comes into the house; Ishida, the leader; Renji, tall and brash and leering; Hitsugaya, short and serious; and Sado, the tallest, the broadest, and the most silent. There is a sixth, they tell her as Ichigo leaves the room just for a moment; Ichigo’s older brother, the one he challenged for the claim to the title of head – but he will come later, once the business at home is settled. 

They all treat her with deference and respect, and they seem to know her better than she expected; she feels as if she suddenly has five dysfunctional and strangely affectionate older brothers. It’s overwhelming, especially with what she has to compare it to in Byakuya and Hisana. She has to breathe and take breaks throughout the day, and return to her sword to clear her mind. 

She wonders how much Ichigo told them about her, how much he remembered of her. 

They don’t speak of fates and demons and prophecies and marriage, after that first afternoon. She needs the time to parse out her feelings, separate the hazy nostalgic memories of her childhood with the Ichigo of here and now. He is handsy, a little annoying, too cocky for his own good – but he is kind to Kon, and warm with his men, and he is always glad to see her, she thinks. 

At last, she tells Hisana about him. Hisana is pleased, too pleased; she promises to talk to Byakuya, to soothe the blow, but she is sure he’ll be pleased as well. It smacks as strange, but Rukia doesn’t think on it too often, as there are demons to fight off and her presence to contain as best as possible.

For the other clans have sniffed her out, it seems; attacks at school are more prevelant. She handles herself well, but there’s only so much she can do with Ichigo or one of his men with her. Ishida and Reni transfer into their class as well, and so she is constantly flanked; it makes her nervous and on edge. The girls in her class also burn and stare with jealousy, and that makes her anxious too. 

Still, the weeks progress, and she finds herself wanting to spend more time with Ichigo, wanting to learn more of him. He is intensely interested in her, in all facets of her, and she feels it in turn. 

It feels right, sitting with him at lunch, his hand grazing her waist in class, their hands settled together as she sits with him on the front porch. It feels _right_ , and that frightens her. 

*

“What are you thinking about?” Ichigo asks her one quiet evening, the darkness sinking purple-blue over them. 

Rukia sighs, tucking her hair behind her ears, the words rolling around in her throat. It’s a tradition now; she will come over after school, after her homework is finished, and spend the evening with Ichigo and his companions. Sometimes Renji or Ishida will spar with her in the courtyard, wooden practice blades only; Ichigo watches, but never participates. She wants to ask why, wants to challenge him to it – but she doesn’t mind when he watches, either. His gaze on her is a press, a motivation. 

Hisana and Byakuya say nothing of the way she spends her time now; in fact, they seem to encourage it. At least Hisana smiles, giggles, and nods, and Byakuya says nothing but doesn’t stop her. It’s curious to her; they trust her, they always have, but this level of leniency is strange. It leaves a strange sort of creeping in her fingertips and her stomach. 

“Did they know?” Rukia asks him as they sit on the porch, looking out across the yard, the slowly flowering trees. 

Ichigo tucks his hands into the wide sleeves of his robes, glancing at her. He looks quite pale in the spring sunlight. The poison is still working its way out of his system. “Did who know what?”

Rukia tucks her knees under her, her fingers curling at the hem of her skirt. Her practice sword rests at her side, in easy reach. Sometimes, she needs to use it in self-defense against wandering hands; she wonders if he doesn’t like it, a little bit, when she uses it.

“My brother and sister. Do they know?” she asks, smoothing her hands over her skirt. 

He looks out over the courtyard, mouth twitching. “It’s amazing how much you’ve forgotten,” he says, shaking his head. 

“It wasn’t by choice, idiot,” she mutters. 

His hand steals over hers on her thigh, fingertips curling under the hem of her skirt. She can feel her skin warm and flush under his touch. “They know,” he says quietly. 

She turns her hand palm up, letting his fingers link into hers. “How?”

Ichigo’s eyes darken. He looks away, into the trees. “It’s not for me to share.”

“Ichigo, you know my brother,” she says, hitting him on the shoulder with her free hand. “He’ll never tell me.”

“You really need to get out of the habit of hitting me,” he retorts, dragging her closer to him with their linked hands. 

She flushes as he shifts her into his lap, her thighs spreading as she straddles him. Her knees rest and shift against the smooth wood planks. “The likelihood of that happening is very low,” she snaps back, even as his hands slide under her skirt to bare skin. 

He shrugs, tipping his head back to look at her. “Eh. I guess I’ll just get used to it,” he says with a long suffering sigh. 

“Ichigo, come on,” she says, pressing her forehead against his. 

His fingers curl into her thighs. He leans up, his mouth catching her jaw. “Your family knows because it’s in your bloodline,” he says quietly. “That’s how they know.”

“You’d think they would have said something,” she mutters. 

He grins a little, eyes sharp and gold. “Maybe I wanted it to be a surprise,” he teases.

“You’re an idiot,” she mutters.

His hands shift from her thighs, moving to the folds of his robes. “I have something for you,” he says quietly. 

She sits back, her hands falling to her lap. Her knees press against the wood heavily. “It’s not under your robes, is it?” she asks dryly. “Because I didn’t fall for that last week.”

Shaking his head, he holds a thin silver chain in front of her. A black feather edged in silver metal dangles from the end. “It’s something to keep you safe. It’ll keep the little demons away, the invisible ones.”

Silence settles between them, the air sweet and warm. Hesitating for a moment, she touches the feather lightly. “Is this – is this one of yours?” she says softly. 

“Eh, I’ve got enough of them,” he shrugs, undoing the clasp. “Can I?”

A blush settles over her throat. She takes the length of her hair in her hands and leans in, baring her neck. His fingers are warm as he clasps it around her throat. The pendant is light, warm against her skin. 

Then, his hands curl at her throat, as she loosens her hair and her hands fall to his chest. “Don’t take it off, okay?” he murmurs. 

“I won’t,” she says softly, her mouth close to his.

Tilting his head up, he slides his mouth over hers, gentle and soft. It’s still a strange feeling, kissing him. She has felt his mouth over wounds, over blood, but it’s rare when he’ll kiss her, or she’ll kiss him. She shuts her eyes and slides her tongue across the seam of his mouth. His hands tighten at her thighs and he shifts their weight, pressing her back against the porch. He stretches out over her, a heavy comforting weight across her body. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says against her mouth, his voice heavy on her skin. 

She shifts and sighs, her hands sliding over his face, cupping his jaw. “You’re still an idiot,” she murmurs, color flushing her face. 

He smirks and then it’s just his mouth on hers, their hands across skin and robes. The breeze is easy on her hair, her skin. 

It’s the closest they’ve come to anything real, verbalized. It makes her want something _more_.

*

 

It’s been a long week of tests and Ichigo’s strange silences and attacks. There’s a tension lingering over all of them in the house; she’s avoiding it more often than not, which doesn’t help Ichigo’s temper. The demons are heavy this week, with spring in the air. 

The fox demons catch her outside as she’s going in from lunch at the end of the week. She is alone, a rarity what with Ichigo, Renji, and Ishida all in school with her now. But today they were kept after English class by Kyouraku-sensei, and it is just her, as it used to be. The other girls giggle and sigh under the trees, the boys stare and murmur; Rukia pays them no mind, as usual. 

Until they approach, that is.

“Hello, princess.”

She stops at the side door of the school, mouth curling. _Get away from the school_ , she thinks, her memories stretching back to collateral damage, her classmates vulnerable and easy as they filter back into the school from lunch. 

“What kind are you?” she asks at last as she turns. There are two of them, silver-pale hair and sharp noses and chins. “Fox demons?” 

The taller of the two smiles, teeth sharp and white in the light. “Right in one. You’re a clever little piece of food, aren’t you?”

“I try,” she murmurs before she presses off her heels and starts to run, out towards the soccer fields. Her hands fumble at her skirt for the knife there. 

They catch her eventually, near the back of the school; a hand claws at her ankle, another at her hip, and she crouches as she takes the fall, dirt thick in her nose. She lashes out with a thrust and a jab, catching skin; she slides out from underneath them and to her feet, breathing heavily. They are both bleeding through their uniforms, but are smiling. 

“A feisty piece of food, too,” the shorter, broader one says with a grin. 

“We’ll take care of that,” his partner murmurs, teeth sharpening. 

She slides the cool hilt of her knife between her fingertips, backing up towards the wall. A cut is open at her thigh, a scrape on her cheek – it’s enough, she thinks, as she cuts at their reaching grasping hands. 

Shadows fall over them, three tall and broad. Ichigo settles to the ground in an easy stand, flanked by Renji and Ishida. 

“No one invited us, eh?” Ichigo asks, the ease of his voice belied by the cold glint of his eyes. “Renji, Ishida, if you would?”

The fox demons pale and growl, stepping back as Ishida and Renji step forward, casual and fierce. Rukia shuts her eyes and sighs, listening as footsteps rattle in her ears, and the dust rises in her nose. 

The blood is sluggish, thick on her thigh, her arm. She leans against the wall, the brick of the school building hot through her uniform. Her dagger is loose in her fingertips. But the fox youkai have retreated, at Renji and Ishida’s pressure, and she is content for now. 

It isn’t her job to kill them, anyway. Just to protect herself until they are dead. She can accept that much. 

“You really just can’t ask for help?” 

She sighs, rolls her eyes at Ichigo’s voice. “Stop it,” she mutters, tucking her dagger under her skirt. 

“I don’t mind,” he drawls. “In fact, it’s kind of why I’m here.”

“I don’t need your help,” she says sharply. He’s hiding something and she’s mad – she can’t help it.

His shadow falls over her, blocking the too-warm spring sun. She tips her head back, looking up at him. His face is set in sharp serious lines, his glasses low on his nose. The teacher attire works for him, she thinks as his hand slides up to her cheek. 

“I know you don’t need it,” he says quietly. His eyes set on the cut across her jaw. “Believe me, I know you don’t.”

The breath catches and knots in her throat. She keeps her eyes on his. Her hands rise, to push at his chest – but her fingers end up curled in the lapels of his blazer. “So stop stalking me, idiot.”

“No,” he says, and lowers his mouth to her jaw. 

It stings, his tongue on the scrape there. Her grip tightens and shifts at his chest, and she shuts her eyes. But she does not cry out. He is gentle, his fingers in her hair and his hand on her waist. She thinks she’s getting used to it, the strangeness of this. 

“I will protect you, Rukia,” he murmurs against her skin. “Even if all I do is watch you fight, I will be there.”

She can’t help a sigh, her mouth parting. A breeze shifts and settles between them, her hair soft against her throat and jaw. The sun is bright behind her closed eyelids. His mouth lingers near hers, just for a moment.

“Why?” she breathes at last. It’s been felt, and explained, in technical terms and lofty words of prophecy. She thinks she feels it in her bones, and she thinks she sees it in his eyes – but there have been no words between them, just them.

His fingers drag from the curling ends of her hair to her throat, resting lightly. She opens her eyes, meeting his very dark gaze. She thinks she can see the gold flecks of his true form, hiding there. 

“You changed everything for me,” he says, voice very low. “I’ve never forgotten.”

Ten years of loss wells up in her chest. She grits her teeth and tugs at his blazer, pulling him in for a rough soft of kiss, her teeth at his bottom lip. He curls his fingers into the nape of her neck, pressing lightly. His mouth opens over hers, easy and warm. 

_You changed me too_ , she thinks, her fingers sliding into the thick fall of his hair. 

“Wait –“ he murmurs against her mouth. “You’re still hurt.”

“I’m fine,” she says, breathless. 

He grins. She feels it against her mouth. “Just shut up and let me do this, idiot,” he mutters, leaning back from her. 

She watches him, goosebumps rising over her flesh. He slides his glasses up the bridge of his nose, smiling slightly. 

Then, he lowers himself to his knees. Her hands fall to his hair, twining there. 

The blood flecks the hem of her skirt as it lays flush to her thighs. His hands slide and curl over her knee as he lowers his mouth to her wound. She can feel it, the skin knitting under his lips, the press of his nose against her thigh. His tongue is wet and easy and giving. She can’t help the curl of her toes, the arch of her hips off the wall. 

“Public? Really? That’s what does it?” he teases, voice muffled by her skin. 

“I hate you,” she mutters through a small moan. 

“We both know that’s not true,” he murmurs. His fingers slide over her thigh, curling at the edges of her panties. 

She tugs on his hair sharply. “Not here, you pervert,” she hisses. 

He just laughs and rises, his hand still under her skirt, fingers pressed between her thighs. “Someday,” he murmurs. His fingers rub slowly against her clit, the press of fabric there. She tilts her head back and sighs, her nails digging into his scalp. “Someday, you won’t care.”

“I doubt that,” she says through a soft moan, letting her mouth catch against his. 

His smile is soft against her lips. There’s a gentleness to his voice and his touch as he edges her back against the wall, his mouth easy on her skin. “You’re okay?”

“I’m okay,” she says quietly, watching him. 

He leans in and kisses her, slow and careful. These are the moments she remembers, when he is an idiot and a jerk; there is care in the way he touches her, the spread of his hand over her thigh, the curl of his mouth over hers. 

It makes it worth it, she thinks.

*

It’s a quiet Sunday morning with the trees in full bloom. The May sun is warm on her shoulders as she leaves her house. Next door, all is still; Rukia slips through the front gate, her practice sword in hand, hair pulled back. The courtyard is quiet; on the front porch, it isn’t Ichigo that waits for her, as usual, but Kon, who is more somber than usual. 

“You look terrible,” she says as she walks up to him. 

Kon shakes his head, blonde hair flying in the air. “The last of the retainers has arrived,” he says, the smile cracking on his little face. 

She leans over and ruffles his hair, looking past him into the house. “Ichigo’s brother?” she asks, voice low. 

Kon’s hand curls at her sleeve. “Aizen-dono, yes.”

Glancing down at the small retainer, she curls her fingers through his hair once more. There’s a chill in the air, lingering and suffocating the house; she can feel it even through her thick leggings. The pendent at her neck seems to warm against her skin. 

“It’s going to be fine,” she says evenly, straightening and stepping onto the front porch. “You’re here to take me in, right?”

Kon nods, sticking close to her legs. She looks out to the courtyard for a moment, the air suddenly stale. Her fingers curl against the rough hilt of her practice sword. 

“Okay,” she says, patting Kon on the head. “Let’s go.”

The house is eerily silent as Kon leads her into the main living area. The floorboards creak under her bare feet. She tucks the loose strands of her hair behind her ears, her practice sword easy and loose in her fingertips. Ichigo’s reticence over his brother’s arrival has not fazed her; she trusts in herself, and she trusts him, for the most part. The appearance of the older brother whose claims were defeated does not scare her. 

Kon slides the door open to the sitting room, and she steps in. All of the retainers are there – Ishida, Renji, Sado, HItsugaya – and they stand immediately on her entrance, murmur a greeting. It’s still a little much for her to handle, all of them at once; she breathes through a flush, and looks around them. 

Ichigo remains seated, staring at who could only be Aizen across the table. Tension is thick in the room. It settles on her shoulders. She tightens her fingers around her sword. 

“You came prepared, eh?” Ichigo drawls without looking at her. 

“I always do,” she says flatly, moving her gaze to the tall man across from Ichigo. 

As she looks at Aizen, there are the stirrings of a memory there. It’s nothing pleasant; it leaves a strange taste in her mouth. Brown hair settles across his brow, the edges touching his glasses. She can see a resemblance in the eyes and the jaw. The easy little smile on his face unnerves her. 

“So this is the princess,” Aizen says at last, eyes lazy as they move over her. “You have grown, haven’t you?”

She grits her teeth, straightening her shoulders. “It happens over the years,” she says, a little more sharply than she meant. 

“You look as if you don’t know me, my lady,” he replies easily. 

“I don’t,” she says evenly. 

Kon’s hand latches at her leg. The other retainers look uneasy, their gazes shifting from her to each other. But as she looks at Ichigo, she can see the small smile playing at his mouth. 

“This is my brother,” Ichigo says, voice even. “You knew him when we first lived here.”

“I’m sure,” she murmurs, nodding. 

Aizen rises, his face placid. He tucks his hands into his sleeves. The movement reminds her so strongly of Ichigo that she has to take a step back. “I’m certain you will remember in time, my lady. I am glad to see you again.”

“Thank you,” she says, bowing her head politely. Her fingers twitch around the wooden hilt. 

In a moment, Ichigo rises and is at her side, his hand firm around her elbow. “Welcome home, brother,” he says with a short nod before he guides her out of the room and out towards the grove of trees. Behind them, she hears the door slide shut, and the low murmurs of the others’ voices. 

“That fun, huh?” she asks once they are outside in the warm spring air. 

“Don’t,” he says, shaking his head. 

He slides the thick black robes from his shoulders and sets them on the front porch. She watches, dragging the tip of her sword in the dirt as he pulls his own practice sword from the belt of his loose trousers. 

“Ichigo –“

“I mean it,” he says, pointing his sword at her, and then pulling back into a stance. The tree branches arch over them, sunlight speckling the ground and their skins. 

Rukia tucks the sleeves of her blouse over her elbows, frowning. “This isn’t how this is going to work,” she says quietly. 

Without warning, he pushes off his heels and leaps towards her, sword slicing through the quiet air. She ducks and raises her sword to parry, jaw tightening. He comes down hard on her; the impact of his sword rattles through her fingers and wrist. 

“It works how I say it does,” he says sharply, eyes darkening. 

Her lips press together. She shakes her bangs from her eyes and swipes a leg at his knees, knocking him to the ground. “Not with me,” she retorts, stepping back as he rolls to his side and then upright once more. “You know that.”

He doesn’t face her for a moment. The tension is thick and visible in the line of his shoulders. She passes her free hand through her bangs, watching him steady. 

“I’m not here playing around,” she says after a long spell of quiet. She can hear footsteps in the house and on the porch behind them. “You need to trust me.”

“I do,” he says, looking at her over his shoulder. She can see the deepening flecks of gold in his eyes. “You don’t understand.”

Frustration licks at her stomach, her fingertips. She shifts her weight and pushes forward, parrying his blade and pushing him back down onto the ground. She sits astride his waist, her knees sinking into the soft spring ground. The point of her blade rests at his chest. 

“That isn’t good enough anymore. Not with what you expect from me,” she says evenly. 

He looks up at her, arms stretched out to his sides; he makes no move to touch her, to flip her over or push her off, though he easily could. His gaze is dark, and narrow. Nothing feels right again, after all the time fought for some semblance of normalcy, beyond demons and prophecies and hazy memories she can’t seem to get back. 

She can feel the eyes of his retainers on them, watching from a distance. Right now, she doesn’t care. 

Wetting her lips, she tosses her sword to the dirt and leans over him, bracing her hands on his chest. “Ichigo, please,” she says under her breath, just for him to hear. 

Now he touches her, his hands cupping the bend of her knees. His mouth curls upwards at the corners. “Not yet,” he says just as quietly, tipping his head up, trying to catch her mouth with his. 

Shaking her head, she pushes herself off his chest, rolling out of his grip onto her side, flat against the ground. “I’m not taking that for an answer any longer,” she says, scrambling to her feet. 

He watches from the ground as she brushes the dirt from her leggings and blouse. The heels of her shoes sink into the ground. Dirt edges her fingernails as she grabs her sword. 

“Rukia, come on,” he says finally as she begins to walk away. The retainers hum and make themselves look busy as she stalks past the front porch, as if they don’t know they she knows they’re listening. “Rukia!”

“Leave it,” she tosses over her shoulder, cheeks flushed. Her eyes catch Aizen’s as she passes; a chill shudders through her. 

Ichigo has her elbow in his grip again in a moment, pushing her back against the thin wooden walls of the house. They are around the corner, out of sight from his guard. He presses a leg between hers and pins her arm to the wall near her head. 

“You don’t do that in front of the men,” he says darkly, leaning in towards her. 

She turns her cheek to him, her free hand clutching into the loose fabric of his shirt. “You don’t tell me what I can and can’t know, and what I will and won’t do,” she snaps back. 

His mouth settles at her jaw, a soft bite. “You are stubborn. I don’t remember you being quite this bad when you were little,” he muses, and she can hear the amusement in his voice.

Her eyes burn; the blank space of lost memories wells up in her, a hard ache in her middle. “You left. Things changed,” she bites out, pushing him away from her with as much force as she can manage. 

He digs his heels in and stutters to a stop, watching her carefully. She tucks her sword into her belt and meets his eyes, hands clenched into fists at her sides. “I changed,” she adds, voice strained. “I’m not a crying six-year-old girl anymore, Ichigo, and I’m not going back to it, either.”

Ichigo doesn’t say anything. His mouth remains a thin line, his hands fisted at his sides. He just looks at her, eyes dark and unreadable. Finally, she shakes her head and walks around him, towards the front gates. 

“Don’t get close to Aizen,” he murmurs as she passes. 

She glances over her shoulder, mouth curling slightly. “Don’t worry about that. I won’t be around for a while,” she says tartly before she walks through the courtyard and out the gates. 

This time, he doesn’t stop her. 

*

School is awkward for the next week, as it always is when they fight. 

He keeps his seat behind her in all their classes, as usual. His gaze drills between her shoulders. She can feel Renji and Ishida’s eyes on her as well, as if this is something she needs to fix; she resents them all for it, even more than usual. 

After five days of her silence and absence from their daily lives, Renji and Ishida pull her into an empty classroom during lunch. Ichigo wasn’t in class this morning; she has spent the whole morning trying to think of a way to ask about him without truly asking, and has come up short. 

“Are you going to lecture me?” she snaps as Ishida shuts the door and shuts off the lights. There’s only weak spring sunlight filtering through the blinds, cutting across the somber set of their faces. 

“My lady, you don’t understand what’s going on,” Renji says shortly, arms crossed over his chest. 

“And whose fault is that?” she retorts, leaning against the clear teacher’s desk at the front of the room. _At least they’re not calling me princess in school still_ , she thinks with a sigh. That had been a fun first week for them. 

Ishida sits, all long limbs and stares as he folds into the desk. How they pass for high school students, she still doesn’t understand; she imagines there’s some sort of spell to help them, and that leaves her more unsettled than usual, so she doesn’t think on it. 

“Ichigo-sama would be very displeased if he knew we were acting out of line in this way. But we feel it’s important for you to be completely informed,” Ishida says, voice quite serious.

She rolls her eyes, dragging her nails along the edge of the desk. “And he doesn’t?” she mutters. 

“He does not want you to blame yourself for the tensions between his brother,” Ishida says. 

Her nails catch; a splinter digs itself under her thumbnail. “Is there a reason I should?” she asks after a long silence. 

The two men glance at each other. It’s Renji who clears his throat and tips his head to the side. Shadows fall across the tattoos on his throat and jaw. “You don’t remember this, my lady – but both of them were at the house when you were young. You met them both,” he says after a moment, voice crisp. 

“You understand, of course, that you are meant to be the bride of the head of the clan,” Ishida interjects. 

“I know,” she says dryly. 

There is a tension in his gaze she cannot place. “Aizen-dono, as the elder brother, was to inherit the title of head, and therefore have you as his bride,” he continues, overly casual. 

“But – but I liked – I don’t understand,” she says after a moment, very quiet. Her hands curl into fists on the desktop. _I loved Ichigo, not Aizen_ is what she wants to say, what lingers on her tongue – but she can’t be so frank with these men, as friendly and as careful with her as they are. 

“You attached yourself to Ichigo-sama, and he to you. Therefore, Ichigo-sama decided, after leaving you, to challenge his brother for the position of head,” Renji says, voice gruff. 

“He never wanted it before, you know,” Ishida murmurs. “It was you, my lady.”

She tucks her chin to her chest, biting the inside of her lip. Her knuckles press hard into the smooth wood. “I don’t know what to say to that,” she says finally. Her toes curl inside her shoes. 

“You could be grateful,” Renji mutters, and Ishida chucks a pencil at his head. “What? I’m just saying!”

“You can’t talk to her like that, you idiot,” Ishida sighs, shaking his head. 

Rukia exhales, and looks at them once more. “It’s because of me that Aizen-san was displaced,” she says flatly. 

“Not entirely,” Ishida says hurriedly. “There are other factors, and certainly Ichigo-sama had to earn the rights –“

“But you were a part of it, yeah,” Renji finishes, eyes flashing red in the dim spring light. 

Sighing, she pushes off of the desk. “Thank you,” she murmurs, knots tensing and shifting at her shoulders. The pendant is heavy around her throat. 

“My lady, we did not mean to upset you,” Ishida says. 

Her hand curls around the doorknob. “You didn’t,” she says, and it’s the truth. “I want to know these things. I need to know them.”

Then, she looks back at the two of them, mouth set in a thin line. “What upsets me is him not telling me himself. That’s all I want,” she says firmly before she turns the knob and slips out of the classroom. 

*

The house is empty when she arrives home. Hisana and Byakuya are on a long-planned vacation, leaving her alone and secure with Ichigo next door. She still doesn’t understand how it all pieces together – it makes her think of the large missing swath of memories, of all the bonds and moments she has yet to catch up to. But they trust him, however he has earned it. 

She hasn’t earned his, though. It burns more fiercely than she imagined it would. 

The backyard is empty as she enters, changed into leggings and a loose blouse, with her wooden practice blade in hand. Her bare toes curl into the grass as she breathes out and presses forth with her motions, the arc of her sword steady. It’s a press and a parry and sliding through grass and dirt, her motions uneasy as thoughts roll around through her mind. 

She comes to rest near the back fence, skin red from the hilt of the wooden blade. Her skin prickles; she is being watched. 

“You look good.”

She swipes her wrist across her brow, breathing heavily. She keeps her back to him, the tip of her sword digging into the grass. 

“What are you doing here?” she asks sharply. 

“Byakuya asked me to check on you, of course,” Ichigo says lazily.

“I’m fine,” she snaps, dragging her sword through the dirt as she raises it and turns. 

He stands in front of her in her usual black robes, mouth curved into a smirk. His hair falls sharply across his brow. “I know you are,” he says, voice low. 

“Then go home,” she says sharply, pulling her sword hard to her side. 

In less than a beat he is in front of her, his hands at her wrists, loosening the sword from her grip. “Not today,” he says, his face very close to hers. 

Rukia pulls back, and yet he follows, until she is pressed against the wooden fence. She presses her mouth shut, breathing sharply through her nose. He shifts his leg between hers, his chest a hard weight against hers. 

“They asked you to come over, after school,” he says quietly, pinning her wrists to the fence. 

She tilts her head back, air sharp between them. “I didn’t want to,” she retorts. 

“But they _told_ you,” he says, frustration creeping into his voice. He leans in, his mouth catching at her jaw. “They said that they told you.”

“Yes. They told me. But _you_ didn’t,” she snaps, turning her cheek to him. 

She feels the press of teeth against her skin, the shift of his thigh between hers. “How was I supposed to say anything, Rukia?” he asks softly, his voice a low reverberation against her throat. “Tell me. What was I supposed to say?”

“It’s my _fault_ ,” she breathes out, a hard burn shuddering at her throat and behind her eyes. “Ichigo, it’s my fault –“

His hand rises to her cheek, pulling her gaze to his. “No,” is all he says before he kisses her, mouth sharp and wet against hers. His tongue is easy against the seam of her lips. 

She arches into him on instinct, her lips parting and her free hand climbing to the nape of his neck, the thick hair there. As strange as it may seem, there is muscle memory here, the feel of instinctual rightness as his mouth shifts and slides across hers, the heavy feel of his chest against hers. The sword loosens and falls from her grip, sliding to the grass below as he corners her against the wood planks of the fence, his hand hard on her hip. 

“It’s not your fault,” he breathes, his mouth just inches from hers. She meets his gaze, looks into the gold flecks reflected in the soft spring light. “It isn’t.”

“Don’t patronize me,” she mutters, shifting against him. 

“I’m not, you idiot,” he retorts. “I – I fell in love with you. I made the choice to challenge him. The blame falls on me.”

There’s a hard tug at her chest. Her hand curls around his, fingers twining. “Past tense?” she asks after a horribly quiet moment. 

Ichigo lets out a choked huff of a laugh. His hair brushes against her brow as he leans in. “Never past it, Rukia. Who the hell could get past you?”

Still, still, even as his words soothe, there is the lingering sharp press of her missing memories, the lack of him in her past. She inhales sharply and leans against the fence, his weight following hers. “You haven’t said it, asshole,” she murmurs. 

“Neither have you,” he retorts, his mouth at her jaw. 

She flushes then, the color hot on her cheeks as he kisses her again. His teeth are insistent at her lip, the press of his tongue wet and warm. Goosebumps rise over her skin as his hand slides from her cheek to the loose fall of her tunic, the rise of her breast. She lifts her leg, her thigh arching against the sharp point of his hip, and his hand is there to catch it, to hold her weight against him as he shifts even closer against her, pressing her back against the fence. 

“I just wanted you to tell me,” she breathes against his mouth, letting him hold her weight as she slides her thighs across his hips as an anchor. “I need you to trust me, Ichigo.”

He keeps a hand tightly twined in hers as his mouth slides over her jaw and throat. “I do,” he says quietly. 

“Prove it,” she says, emboldened by the arch of her hips against his, the feel of her callused hands on his skin. 

Pulling his head back, he watches her for a long moment, eyes dark. The pendant at her throat burns with his gaze. “You wanted to play with me,” he says after a moment, his voice very soft. “You wanted to play with me, and I had to study, and I told you so. Instead of going home, you waited. You waited on the front porch, in the rain, holding the small pink ball you liked so much.”

Tears sharpen at the corners of her eyes. “Ichigo –“

“And then the next day you gave me a rice cake you made out of mud, and I knew,” he says shakily. “I knew.”

The loss wells up in her again, the missing pieces of a past she longs to remember. Leaning in, she kisses him, her mouth soft against his. “I wish I could remember,” she whispers against his lips, her hand curling into the nape of his neck. 

His grip tightens on her, the press of his hips against hers hard. She tilts her head back, watching him through damp eyes. “Eh, I’m not so bad now, right?” he asks. There’s something strangely vulnerable in his voice, curling through each word. 

Biting at his lip, she slides her hand over his chest to press right at his heart. “No. You’re not so bad,” she murmurs. “Not that there isn’t room for improvement –“

“You’re a bitch,” he says with a grin, his free hand sliding under the hem of her blouse to bare warm skin. She sucks in her stomach and tilts her head to the side, the breath catching in her throat. His fingers slide over the curve of her breast. 

“Here?” she murmurs as his mouth slides over her throat, tongue at her pulse. “Really?”

“Yes,” he says heavily, biting at her skin. 

His hand slides over her stomach and under the band of her leggings, between her thighs. His fingers press at her clit, rubbing lightly as she shifts and hums against him. Her hands curve to the line of his throat, nails scraping at the nape of his neck. The smell of grass and flowers lingers in her nose. 

“ _Ichigo_ ,” she breathes through a moan, pressing her hips into his touch as two fingers slide slickly into her. 

His thumb presses against her clit and he catches her mouth with his, kissing her hot and deep. She can feel the reverberation of her name on his mouth, the pull of her blood to hers at the surface of her skin. She comes with his mouth on his, his body pressed to hers, his fingers curved inside of her. His mouth is soft and wet on hers, her breathing stuttered and caught at the base of her throat.

“Stay here,” she breathes against him, her fingers catching in his hair. 

He stills against her, his hand sticky against her stomach. “Yeah?” he asks slowly, mouth curling into a smirk.

“Don’t make me ask again, asshole” she says, shoving at his shoulders. 

Laughing, he pulls her against her and carries her through the yard, the hems of his robes fluttering behind him. Later, she will stretch out against him in her childhood bed, watching him in the dusk. The sheets are cool against her skin, his body warm under hers. It feels right, his mouth smiling against her jaw and his hands wide on her waist. 

She wishes it could stay this way, just the two of them. 

*

“Oh,” Rukia says as she enters the main sitting room, and finds Aizen there, alone. It is the first time she has encountered him alone in the three weeks he’s been here. “I’m sorry. I was –“

“Looking for my brother?” he asks, all amusement as he sits with his tea. His dark hair falls across the line of his glasses. The hidden meaning curls under her skin – _can you do nothing without Ichigo_? It sinks into her and sharpens her tongue.

She links her hands in front of her skirt, straightening. “No, actually. I was looking for Kon-chan,” she says evenly. “We were to go shopping.”

“Ah. My mistake,” he murmurs, sipping his tea. 

_One of many_ , she thinks, taking a step back toward the doorway. “I am sorry to intrude –“

“Stay, if you would, Rukia,” he says, spreading an arm through the air. 

She stills, the tips of her fingers cool. “For what?” she asks warily, a sharp taste in the back of her throat. He is the only one of the retainers to call her by her given name; it unsettles her, if she’s honest. 

Aizen smiles. It’s cold, nothing friendly, and she wants a sword, wants a means of protection at her fingertips. “I would know the young lady who has stolen my brother’s affections,” he says. 

She kneels at the table, for there is little else open to her. He pours her a cup of tea, which she drinks out of polite habit. “Stolen isn’t quite the word I would use,” she says at last. 

He shrugs, mouth twisting at the corners. “It is just like you ladies, to be modest.”

Anger licks at her fingertips, her tongue; she bites at her bottom lip and shakes her head. “There is nothing truly interesting to know of me, sir,” she says firmly. 

“Call it curiosity, then. After all, you could have been my bride,” he murmurs. 

The air between them chills. A shiver runs through her spine. No, I couldn’t have, she thinks even as they sip tea together. Her toes curl, beginning to numb as she rests her weight on her folded legs. 

“You seem to be adept at the sword,” he murmurs after a moment. 

“I learned young and fast,” she says, keeping her eyes to her tea. 

He laughs softly. Outside, the birds are quiet, and no breeze settles. The air is thick, overwarm at her skin, her throat. “But was there any real need?”

Her fingers curl hard against the curve of her tea cup. “The demons are subdued by a girl who can wield a weapon,” she says slowly. 

“Ah, yes. But surely, you knew Ichigo would return for you.”

He is teasing her, she realizes as frustration swells in her chest. “You know I don’t remember those times, when we were all young,” she says at last, checking the urge to flip the table and shove the shards of her tea cup into his throat. 

Humming softly, he nods. “Of course. The strange disappearance of your memories.”

In the distant rooms of the house, she can hear Kon, hear him chatting to himself. “I should –“

“I could shed some light for you, if you wanted,” Aizen says, stopping her in her move to rise from the table. 

She stops, her hands flat on the tabletop. Her gaze doesn’t flinch as it meets his, cool and collected. “Excuse me?”

“I would be happy to share memories of that time with you, if you wanted. Perhaps it would help unlock whatever dreadful seal has been put upon them in your mind,” he says easily. His tea remains untouched. 

Her fingers curl into the wood, splinters catching under her nails. _The tea_. 

“Oh,” she says softly. Her legs are dead weights under her. 

“Oh, yes, Rukia,” he murmurs, is suddenly at her side, his mouth at her ear. “I will shed that desperate light.”

His hand covers her mouth as his arm latches across her waist. She can feel his breath at her throat, the sharp graze of his teeth. Her limbs are dead weights under her, useless – all she can do is breathe in, and bare her own teeth in a bite across his palm. 

“Don’t even try,” he hisses, his nails digging into her cheek. “You said you wanted to remember, didn’t you?”

Her eyelids shift heavily, fluttering downwards. _No_ , she thinks, clawing at her insides. But her muscles refuse to comply and she shuts her eyes without a sound, the darkness thick and smothering over her entire body. 

She thinks she hears an outraged cry, a sharp sound of pain – but then, there is nothing. 

*

Rukia wakes in darkness. She breathes, and can smell the blossoms in the air, the quiet reverberations of the house. Her hands are bound at the small of her back. There is an ache at her jaw, as if she has been hit. 

On her side, she shifts, scrambling onto her feet. Her eyes adjust to the dim light with every blink. She steps back, searching for an edge, a crack of light in the walls. The dagger usually at her thigh is missing; she can feel that as she walks back. 

A small hand latches at her ankle. “Lady –“

It’s Kon’s voice, wavering in the darkness. She drops to her knees and leans over his little face. “Are you okay?” she murmurs. 

“Oh, he’s quite all right. He’s only forgotten what it’s like to train with a true leader,” Aizen’s voice drawls from the far corner. 

The shutters open, letting in early evening light. Rukia squints and shifts back, her bare knees scraping along the dusty floor. “Kon,” she murmurs, wiggling her fingers at him. 

His tiny hands curl around her wrists as she shields his body, fingers plucking at the ropes. Aizen stands in the corner, motionless and smiling. 

“Keeping me on the property is a bad choice,” she says to him at last, working her jaw. There’s blood beading at her kneecaps, the scent rising in the air; she watches as Aizen’s eyes widen, his skin flushes. _It’s not enough_ , she thinks, shifting harder, deepening the scrapes. 

“I’m counting on my brother to find you, Rukia. You don’t have to lure him,” Aizen murmurs. Dust rises in the thin shafts of light through the room. Her bare toes curl as Kon works, magic mumbling under his breath. “After all, you want your memories back, don’t you?”

“I think you have something else in mind,” she retorts, her wrists coming apart at her back. 

He smiles, cold and sharp and white. She can see his teeth sharpening. “Perhaps. I am only trying to take back what is mine.”

“I don’t fall into that category,” she says sharply. 

“You used to.”

“Well, blame free will,” she says. “There are some things you can’t change.” 

His lips curl. “So say you.”

The ropes and their spell fall away from her wrists. She rises to her feet, keeping her hands behind her back. “Get back, Kon,” she murmurs, edging him against the wall. 

“Lady, no –“

“Kon, it’s fine,” she says patiently. The blood pearls down the line of her calf from her knee, a slow sluggish drip. She has to keep him talking – that’s her best chance. 

Something cool is slipped into her hands. “Here,” Kon breathes as she slides her fingers over a small hilt, the sharp point of a knife. 

“So, you’ll marry me yourself, then?” she asks Aizen, her bare heels digging into the floor. 

“Marry you? Why would I do that?” he says with a cool laugh. “You are needed for one purpose – a child. Then, we shall keep you to drink you dry.”

A shiver curls up her spine. “I’d rather not.”

“It’s interesting how you think you have a choice,” he retorts. 

“Ichigo beat you,” she says, turning her knife in her fingertips. “He challenged you, and won.”

Aizen’s eyes darken. He spreads his arms wide, the sleeves of his robes fluttering in the sharply shadowed air. “I let him. Now, I take back what’s mine.”

He’s in front of her before she can move, taking her by the throat. Her feet rise and dangle off the ground as he lifts her up. His thumb presses in at her pulse, and her vision spots for just a moment. She goes limp in his grip. Below her, Kon cries out. 

“You are not to be loved, and worshiped. You are just power, to be conquered and use. I will have it,” he breathes near her ear. 

Inhaling, she swings her hands in front of her and swipes the knife across his wrists. He drops her with a low growl; blood drips on her face as she falls to her feet once more. She grabs Kon and ducks past Aizen, pushing the youngest retainer towards the door. The knife is slippery in her fingertips. They stop at the edge, the hair on the nape of her neck rises with the magic of the barrier. 

“It’s okay,” she breathes to Kon, his little face wide and scared. “Call for him.”

A hand locks around her ankle, wet with blood. She gasps as she is dragged to her back and across the dusty floor. Aizen looms over her, sleeves and hands stained. Kon cries out, and yes, it might be enough. 

“You are too brave for your own good,” Aizen murmurs, lips curling back to reveal the sharp press of his teeth. He pins her legs to the floor with his weight. His hands pin her wrists back, plying the dagger from her fingertips. 

“She’s just brave enough,” Ichigo says sharply from behind them. 

“Quicker than I expected, little brother,” Aizen murmurs. She watches him look up towards the door, the clear barrier there. She does not search for Ichigo’s gaze. “We aren’t quite ready for the show.”

“Let her go. If you have a problem, you can deal directly with me,” Ichigo says, voice very low. 

“But this is dealing directly with you,” Aizen says, still smiling. “This is the true way to break you. This little human girl. She is food, Ichigo. She isn’t to be treasured.”

He leans in towards her throat. The weight on her legs is eased just for a moment. Twisting her knees, she rolls him over with all the strength she can muster, crawling out of his grip and grasping for the bloody knife. It’s nothing but a kitchen knife, she notices as she stands, breathing heavily. 

“Rukia –“

“I’m fine,” she says evenly, glancing at Ichigo. He and the other retainers stand at the open door, pressed against Aizen’s barrier. Ichigo’s gaze is fixed on her, dark gold and narrow. “He drugged the tea.”

“I should have taken you then. I wanted Ichigo to have a show,” Aizen snarls as he rises again to his feet. “Now, no more fooling around.”

He stretches out his hand towards the door. A sharp pulse of energy thickens the air. She shouts as Ichigo stumbles back; blood blooms darkly across his chest, the fabric of his robes sliced open in wide swaths. 

Then, there is a memory, unbidden –

_She is small again, young. Her ball rolls into the open gate of the house next door. The ghosts tug and pull at her hair, laugh at her ear. She swipes at them as she runs for her ball, her skirt tangling at her knees._

_A pale hand cups the toy. She looks up into a sharp face, dark eyes, bright orange hair._

_“I’m sorry,” she squeaks, a little breathless. “That’s my ball, and the kids – they kicked it –“_

_“It’s okay,” he says, looking at her a little strangely. “You’re just covered in them.”_

_“Huh?” she asks, even as he sets the ball down and swipes at the air around her. The demons clear, the ghosts leave. She takes a full breath for the first time all day. She is so grateful she nearly cries. “Oh, thank you,” she whispers, taking his hand._

_“It’s no problem,” he mumbles, patting her head._

_“My name is Rukia,” she says, watching as he bends to pick up her ball again._

_He hands it back to her, smiling slightly. “I’m Ichigo.”_

– Her eyes widen and she presses a hand to her stomach. Pain settles harshly at her temples. 

“Rukia!”

“She wanted to remember,” Aizen drawls as Ichigo presses a fist to the barrier, blood dragging over his skin and robes. Ishida and Renji have him by the shoulders, and there’s so much blood it fills her mouth and there is a hand on her throat the knife is loose in her fingertips teeth at her neck and Ichigo is yelling and bleeding – 

_“You study a lot, don’t you?” she asks as they sit together on the front porch. She kicks her little legs off the side, swaying side to side. Her skirt flutters in the breeze._

_“I have to,” Ichigo murmurs, his books spread out in front of him._

_“Can I help?” she asks, leaning in and pressing her cheek to his shoulder._

_He sighs, long-suffering. “I don’t think so, no. Shouldn’t you go bother Aizen?”_

_She smacks his arm. “No. I want to bother you,” she says with a smile._

_He looks surprised for a moment, eyes wide. Then, he smiles. She is only six but she knows his smiles are special._

– Teeth slide into her throat and she opens her eyes, crying out. Aizen’s arm is around her waist, pinning her to him, as his other hand twists in her hair. The smell of blood, moist and thick, lingers in her nose. 

“I sealed them away, you know,” Aizen says, just loud enough for them all to hear. 

Rukia curls her hands into fists, her bare toes scraping the floor. She watches Ichigo as he sinks to his knees, the blood thick between his fingers. The pendant is warm at her throat. He is waiting, she thinks. 

“Why?” she breathes, to keep him talking. The blood is warm across her collarbones. 

“Because you were _mine_ ,” Aizen breathes. She feels the curl of his mouth against her throat, the cool slide of teeth, just grazing the skin. 

“No,” she whispers. 

He stops then, still against her. “What?”

Her eyes fix on Ichigo, doubled-over and unmoving. In the dusky light, shadows creep over the bright cast of his hair. “I was never yours,” she says quietly, firmly. 

The air thickens; Aizen’s anger is palpable against her skin. Ichigo looks up, meeting her eyes. 

“It was always him,” she says, voice soft and unwavering. 

Fingers tighten in her hair. Aizen’s hand at her waist slides under her blouse. “That doesn’t matter now,” he breathes, words sharp and hard. 

She looks away, to Kon, sitting and watching with tears edging his eyes in the corner. 

“Kon,” she whispers as Aizen tilts her throat using the long tangled grip on her hair. 

Ichigo rises, the blood thick on his robes. Kon whispers, hand outstretched – the air whistles near her ear. She shuts her eyes against the press of another memory as hair falls across her shoulders and Aizen’s grip is gone –

_She makes rice cakes from mud, because Hisana won’t give her actual rice. One for Ichigo, which is bigger and tastier, she thinks, and one for Aizen-san, because she doesn’t want him to feel left out. Ichigo takes his, eats it of course, and then stomps around grumpily about eating mud._

_He still says thank you._

_When she gives one to Aizen-san, he crumples it in his fist. His hand across her cheek stings sharply, will leave a mark. She doesn’t cry – instead, she kicks him in the shin and runs towards the gate for home._

_It’s a sunny day, and all she can feel is the rejection, the push away._

_“Rukia-chan!” Ichigo calls, running after her._

_He can’t see he can’t see he can’t see he can’t see –_

_His hand is at her wrist, gently stopping her, and now she wants to cry. Her brother and sister say she is supposed to like Aizen, supposed to pay attention to him and not Ichigo, but she can’t she can’t she can’t –_

_“What happened?” Ichigo breathes after a moment of staring at her. His fingers are light on her red cheek._

_“Nothing,” she mumbles, shaking her head._

_“You – you gave him the rice cake. He ate it, right?” he asks, voice rising._

_She shuts her eyes. She can’t lie to him. Her lip trembles, but still she does not cry. “No,” she says softly._

_Suddenly, his arms are around her shoulders and he’s hugging her, almost too tightly. “It won’t happen again,” he mutters in her ear._

_Rukia curls her fingertips into his chest, a tight grip on the front of his robes. She trusts that more than anything else._

–She opens her eyes surrounded by the smell of blood. 

“Hey,” Ichigo murmurs, his hand at her hair. He has her weight against his chest, outside in the early evening air. 

She groans, and sits up, knees pressing into the wooden planks of the front porch. “I’m okay,” she murmurs, looking up at him. 

He keeps his hand at her cheek, his face very pale. “I have to heal these,” he says flatly, his fingers sliding over the wound at her throat. 

“And you?” she retorts, fingers skimming the open wounds across his chest. She leans up, taking his face between her hands. “I’m fine,” she murmurs before she kisses him, soft and slow. 

His hands cup her face, holding her close. A moan escapes his mouth as she parts her lips, her tongue gentle against his lips. She can feel it, the power sliding over them and between them. The air shifts and warms around them; she shifts closer, eyes falling shut. 

“More?” she whispers. 

His fingers slide into her hair, the jagged ends from where Kon severed Aizen’s grip. “Yeah,” he murmurs, kissing her again. 

She slides her arms around his neck and lets him press her back into the porch. Her body aches and she is tired from struggling, from the loss of blood, but she can feel Ichigo’s wounds knitting together and healing, and she opens her mouth to him, sighing softly. 

“Your hair,” he murmurs, fingers dragging at the edges of her hair as it slides over her throat. 

“I had to,” she murmurs, her teeth biting at his lip. “You were waiting for me to get away, weren’t you?”

“I thought – I thought –“

She shakes her head and kisses him again. “I can take care of myself,” she says softly. 

He laughs, voice low and hoarse against her skin; it’s reluctant, but there. His mouth shifts and moves to her throat, tongue soft on the wounds there. The skin knits together and she shuts her eyes again, moaning softly. 

“Where is he?” she asks after a moment, once he’s pulled her back upright and into his lap, his arms tight around her waist. 

Ichigo sighs. “They’re taking him back to my hometown for confinement. It’s not over yet,” he says. He sounds weary, too old for his age. 

She presses her face into his throat. “They think you should have killed him,” she guesses, shutting her eyes. 

Hands shift and slide over her back. “Yeah. It might still come to that,” he says quietly. 

Rukia curls her hands into his robes, finding the skin newly mended. “I meant it, you know,” she says, after a long moment. She tips her head back to look at him. “It was always you.”

A hand rises to her cheek, fingers sliding into her hair. “I know,” he says softly before he leans in and kisses her. 

She doesn’t go home that night. He won’t let her, even if she wanted to. He tucks her into his side and she falls asleep next to him, his arms around her and his face tucked into her throat. She dreams of a childhood she barely remembers, and sleeps the best she can remember.

*

It isn’t over; Ichigo is right about that. 

Aizen is still an issue, the other clans are still an issue. Her memories are still sealed for the most part, and sometimes, she wonders of the future, of what it really will mean to be Ichigo’s wife, and what kind of waves it will make for her and him together. 

But Ichigo is hers, and she is his; and when he asks her, worried and serious, if she will come back to his hometown with her, for formal introductions and the settling of Aizen once and for all, she accepts immediately. His future is hers, and she will stand with him, and fight for him. 

There are some promises that are always kept. 

*


End file.
